GODTCBieRDM 


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I*  r,A!JF.  Ml*****    I  OS 


Calendar 


WILLIAM  A.  QUAYLE 


OI8UM 


1 

CIT 


.8 


5JNATI:  JENNINGS  AND  GRAHAM 
NEW  YORK:    E  ATON  A  N  D  M  A  I  NS 


Calendar 


By 
WILLIAM  A.  QUAYLE 


P' 


CINCINNATI:  JENNINGS  AND  GRAHAM 
NEW  YORK:    EATON  AND  MAINS 


Copyright,  1907 
By  Jennings  and  Graham 


of 


REMEMBERED  Music, 

Frontispiece 

JANUARY,    - 

PAGE    II 

FEBRUARY, 

-  "   15 

MARCH,       -        *  • 

"      18 

APRIL,    -        t 

"      23 

MAY, 

"      26 

JUNE,     ,- 

-    "      3i 

JULY, 

"      36 

AUGUST, 

-    "      41 

SEPTEMBER,          •    '     - 

«'      48 

OCTOBER, 

-    "     53 

NOVEMBER,           • 

"     61 

DECEMBER,      • 

i        -         •    "      7» 

2132054 


s  Calendar 


HOURS  and  minutes  are  man's  invention. 
Weeks  and  days  and  nights  and  the  month 
and  the  year  are  God's  inventions.  A  sev- 
enth day  for  rest,  God  said  ;  and  the  week 
was  put  in  the  calendar.  One  daylight  and 
one  dark  ;  and  the  day  was  created.  One 
advent  and  exit  of  the  silvery  moon  ;  and  the  The  Caien- 
month  was  included  in  its  silvery  circuit.  dar  is  Qod'8 

_.  f  ,  .  .     .          Invention 

The  planet  s  panting  journey  around  the 
sun;  and  the  year  became  a  terrestrial  and 
celestial  fact.  Twelve  comings  and  goings 
of  the  moon,  with  a  few  days  excess  thrown 
in  for  good  measure,  as  is  customary  with 
God  ;  and  God's  calendar  is  an  accom- 
plished loveliness. 

The  Romans  named  our  months.  I  wish 


The  Author 
Wishes  God 
had  Named 
the  Months 


God  had.  The  Romans  lacked  imagina- 
tion. They  were  seriously  matter  of  fact 
God  is  imaginative.  He  dreams  dreams. 
Anybody  could  know  that  about  God ;  for 
has  He  not  made  flowers  and  childhood 
and  clouds  and  the  spider's  web  and  the  Because  He 
dewy  morn  and  the  rainbow-arch  glow  as  the  Poet 
of  gems,  and  the  mountain  crag  and  the 
undulant  valley  and  the  swift  wind  and  the 
glow  of  love  and  the  summer  land  and 
the  blue  of  sky  and  sea  and  the  downward 
rush  of  waterfalls  for  draining  of  mountain 
snows?  God  touches  things  with  poetry 
as  Fall  touches  leaves  to  garnet  and  gold 
and  sardonyx.  If  God  had  named  the 
months  He  would  have  them  called  after 
events;  but  the  Romans  called  them  after 
men  or  gods,  or,  those  failing,  after  the 
numeration  table.  We  inherit  their  dull, 
unsympathetic,  ineffectual  cognomens,  and 
like  many  inherited  things  would  be  glad 
to  be  quit  of  them  but  seem  not  to  know 
the  way.  If  in  anything  pertaining  to  our 
travel  through  the  year,  we  have  right  need 
to  a  virile  yet  tender  vocabulary  which  shall 
give  our  hearts  a  clue  to  the  year-time  it  is 
6 


in  the  month-naming.  If  such  symbol  of 
the  month  had  been  given  to  the  name  of 
each  month  then  had  we  felt  a  sweet  appo- 
siteness  in  the  name.  No  two  months  are 
alike.  We  group  them  in  seasons ;  but  the 
the  months  give  us  no  right  to.  Each 
month  is  like  a  statue  which  has  a  right  to 
its  own  pedestal.  They  are  not  grouped 
figures  like  the  Laocoon  but  single  figures 
like  Canova's  Psyche. 

September,  October,  November  are  not 
relatives  and  have  therefore  no  reason  to 
be  called  by  one  patronymic.  September 
is  yet  sweaty  with  growth.  October  is  a 
poet  who  has  forgotten  whither  he  journeys. 
November  is  the  melancholy  of  the  leafless 
branches.  What  blood  relatives  are  these  ? 
November,  December,  January,  February 
and  March  might  better  be  grouped  to- 
gether. All  these  are  lifeless;  all  are 
storm-swept,  all  are  wintry-breathed:  all 
breathe  out  threatenings  and  slaughter  like 
a  murderous  king.  No,  we  have  not  come 
at  the  seasons  rightly.  We  have  found  a 
name  and  have  hunted  out  victims  for  the 
name  we  found.  We  have  been  far  from 


No  Two 
Months  are 
Alike 


They  are  like 

Canova's 

Psyche, 

Single 

Figures 


accurate.  Truth-telling  has  not  been  our 
failing,  that  is  evident.  Though  this  much 
is  to  be  said  for  the  names  of  the  seasons.  The  Author 

They  have  poetic  insight.    They  are  Saxon  Wishes  that' 

Tc  1    u    •       ^       u  u     Seei°gQod 

names,  and  baxon,   barbarian  though  he  did  not 

was,  had  insight  which  the  Romans  had  not.   Name  the 

For  my  part  I  had  rather  the  Greeks  had  Gr' 
made  the  calendar.     Poetry  and  they  were  Because 
friends.     They  had  enough  childhood   in  Poetry»nd 

...  ,          .  .  .  They  were 

their  hearts  to  make  them  name  things  Friend* 
from  resemblances:  that  is  poetry.  The 
Greeks  talked  of  "amaranth"  and  "nux" 
and  much  besides  that,  is  very  beautiful. 
But  they  lacked  in  application.  The  crying 
of  the  Bacchantes  was  on  them ;  and  they 
went  they  knew  not  whither.  They  were 
lax  astronomers.  They  were  no  chronolo- 
gers.  They  invented  no  clepsydra.  But 
Pleiades  and  Hyades  they  saw  and  gave 
them  the  names  they  were  to  wear.  But 
the  Greek  failed  us.  He  might  have  given 
wings  to  the  months  and  did  not ;  and  the 
matter-of-fact  Roman  in  his  matter-of-fact 
way  took  hold  of  the  almanac  and  called 
the  months  by  the  names  which  thereafter 
God's  months  were  to  wear. 
8 


January  is  named  from  Janua,  a  door. 
February  was  the  month  of  expiation. 
March  was  the  Mars  month,  namely  the 
battle  month.  April  was  from  Aperio,  the 
opening  month.  May  was  named  after  the  This  Christ- 
goddess  Maia.  June  probably  from  Juno  the  e 
wife  of  Jove.  July  from  Julius  Caesar  who 
was  born  in  this  month.  August  after  Au- 
gustus Caesar.  September,  October,  No- 
vember and  December  after  numerals,  res- 
pectively seventh,  eighth,  ninth  and  tenth, 
and,  as  we  now  reckon  even  the  numerals 
are  untrue,  as  everybody  knows  December 
is  not  the  tenth  month,  but  the  twelfth.  But 
in  the  time  of  this  calendar  making  this  no- 
tation was  correct  enough ;  for  the  Roman 
year  began  with  March  and  not  with  Janu- 
ary. Anyhow  this  christening  is  palpably 
awry.  Either  the  month  came  too  soon  or 
we  came  too  late.  However,  things  have 
gone  too  far  for  rectifying.  The  child  is 
baptized  ;  and  his  name  cannot  be  changed. 
More's  the  pity. 

January  is  the  cold  month.  February 
is  the  thaw  month,  March  the  wind  month, 
April  the  wild  flower  month,  May  the  vio- 

9 


let  month,  June  the  rose  month,  July  the 
wheat  harvest  month,  August  the  maize 
month,  September  the  grape  month,  Octo- 
ber the  apple-gathering  month,  November 
the  leaf-fall  month,  December  the  snow 
month,  but  since  Jesus  came,  has  become 
the  children's  month — the  snow  with  the 
summer  sun  shining  full  on  it. 

January  is  the  month  of  freezing:  Feb- 
ruary is  the  month  of  dreaming  of  Spring : 
March  is  spring  beginning  to  blow  Winter 
into  the  sea:  April  the  month  of  hunting 
for  wild  flowers,  the  morning  of  the  spring 
odors  and  earth  smells  :  May  is  the  breath 
of  blossoms  of  Spring :  June  is  the  month 
of  love  and  ecstasy:  July  is  wealth  of  toil 
of  growth :  August  is  the  sweat  month  of 
the  year :  September  is  the  hope  delayed 
which  doth  not  make  the  heart  sick :  Oc- 
tober is  the  jewel  month  when  the  world 
from  sky  to  sky  is  become  a  jewel  casket: 
November  is  the  month  oi  decrepit  age, 
shivering,  inarticulate,  and  snow-white  of 
locks.  December  is  the  cruel,  masterful 
king. 


May  is  the 
Violet 
Month  and 
June  is  the 
Wild  Rose 
Month  and 
September 
the  Grape 
Month  and 
October  the 
Apple  Gath- 
ering Month 
and  Novem- 
ber has  Leaf 
Fall  and  De- 
cember has 
Christ 


IO 


.8 


ianuat? 

JANUARY  is  the  frost  month.  Then  win-  NOW  winds 
ter  does  frantic  battle.  Winds  blow  fresh 
from  the  ice  fields  of  Norland  nor  lose  a 
trifle  of  polar  spleen  in  their  rush.  The 
snows  stay  thick.  Sleet  is  likely  to  pano- 
ply tree  and  shrub  and  snow  field.  Then 
the  quails,  gentle  folk,  are  apt  to  be  sealed 
in  a  snow  tomb  by  the  cerement  of  the 
sleet.  We  shall  find  them  when  Spring 
comes  where  the  ice  crust  overtook  them. 
This  is  over  again  the  story  of  the  happy 
maid  in  the  tale  of  old  "Genevra,"  who, 
hiding  in  glee  from  her  happy  pursuer, 
found  tomb  for  herself  in  the  chest  in 
which  she  hid  her  happy  self.  Winds  ca- 
reer in  tree  tops.  What  glowing  stories 
are  rehearsed  in  January  when  sleets  gar- 
12 


ment  the  world  in  silver.  When  the  sun 
shines  on  this  ice-owned  world  then  are 
marvels  re-enacted  before  the  eyes  of  men. 
Earth  has  become  a  battle-mooded  army 
where  everything  is  soldier  and  every  soldier 
is  battle-clad  in  silver  armor;  and  the  saber 
and  the  spear  shock  together  and  the  sun 
glisters  on  gauntlets  and  spear  and  battle- 
axe  and  sword  held  up  against  the  sky; 
and  all  this  silver-armored  world  seems  in 
frantic  battle-charge.  Then  the  birds  are 
hungry.  Buckberries  are  ice-coated;  and 
the  winds  jangle  the  icy  branches  of  seed 
weeds  like  a  chorus  of  bells.  Music  there 
is,  but  no  bird  breakfast.  Then  it  is  the 
birds  grow  half  tame  and  feed  with  the 
chickens  and  forget  their  usual  snubbing 
the  folks.  Then  moonlight  nights  and  the 
rivers  where  girls  and  boys  build  bonfires 
in  their  cheeks  and  in  their  hearts,  and 
where  the  winding  river  is  become  a  car- 
nival of  beauty  and  moonlit  splendor  and 
of  summer  gladness  in  winter  time.  In 
January  snowy  nights  the  rabbits  grow 
jubilant.  Great  fun  is  in  snowy  wood- 
lands on  dark  nights  when  from  every 

13 


Earth  has 
Become  Bat- 
tle-mooded 
Where 

Everything 
is  Soldier 


runway  rabbits  gather  in;  when  the  pu- 
gilist rabbit  stamps  with  his  hind  feet  his 
battle  summons,  and  when  all  Rabbit 
Town  is  out  in  holiday  gladness ;  and  they 
caper  to  the  music  of  icy  branches  swing- 
ing in  the  winds,  or  if  the  winds  be  quiet, 
the  banjo  music  of  their  own  happy  hearts. 
Then  it  is  the  young  gentleman  rabbit  in- 
vites his  lady  friend  out  to  an  oyster  sup- 
per on  my  apple  trees,  young,  esculent, 
delicious.  The  rabbit  is  lax  in  his  sense 
of  other  people's  property.  For  all  I  can 
observe  he  is  a  genuine  socialist  and  loves 
to  divide  up  other  people's  substance. 
January  is  winter  at  noon.  Weather  cuts 
up  now  if  at  all.  The  sense  of  mastery, 
cold,  cruel,  relentless  is  in  winter's  heart. 
It  is  a  menace.  No  quarter  need  be 
asked;  for  no  quarter  will  be  given.  Bat- 
tle to  the  death  is  what  January  challenges 
to ;  and  the  oak  trees  and  the  chickadees 
and  the  wide-armed  elms  answer  the  chal- 
lenge. 


The  Sense 
of  Mastery, 
Cruel,  Re- 
lentless, is 
in  Winter's 
Heart 


.8 


FEBRUARY  is  Winter  losing  heart  and 
sitting  down  for  a  breathing  spell.  Even  j 
Winter  relents.  February  is  Winter  relent-  Heart 
ing.  After  the  perfect  jubilation  of  harsh- 
ness in  January,  February  grows  tender- 
hearted. The  sleet  melts :  the  snow  turns 
to  slush :  the  creeks  are  swollen  and  noisy : 
the  snow  fields  become  tattered  like  an  ill- 
kept  child:  the  black  ground  shows  in 
patches:  cattle  huddle  around  and  near 
the  friendly  haystack  and  chew  cud  in  a 
mild  way  as  to  say,  "We  knew  vpur 
weather  would  moderate."  Cattl^are 
your  genuine  philosophers.  They  never 
fuss.  They  take  what  comes.  They  hump 
up  when  snow  falls  and  the  wind  is  pierc- 
ing ;  but  they  use  no  bad  words  that  I  ever 
heard,  and  sleep  out  in  the  snow  without 
cover  uncomplaining  as  a  soldier  trained 
to  hard  campaigns.  When  February 
16 


comes,  with  its  temporary  geniality,  the 
cattle  kick  up  some  and  frisk  as  to  say, 
"  Bully  for  the  weather !  We  are  tickled !"  February  i» 
But  a  frisky  disposition  when  there  is  any-  J^*^ 
thing  to  frisk  at,  and  an  indisposition  to  Note  to  Quit 
kick  when  there  is  something  to  kick  at,  Butin«M 
are  worthy  of  consideration.  People  might 
learn  from  the  critters  if  they  would  only 
take  them  as  schoolmasters,  and  chew  their 
cud  more  and  their  grievances  less.  Feb- 
ruary thaw  says  "Winter  is  getting  ready 
to  quit."  Not  right  away  to  be  sure.  Win- 
ter is  dignified ;  and  dignity,  as  is  well 
known,  is  a  trifle  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  not 
given  to  alacrity  of  motion.  But  water  runs 
and  jumps  in  the  stream  beds  which  have 
been  hermetically  sealed  for  months,  and 
the  sound  of  their  goings  is  in  the  air,  and 
the  country  boy  gives  a  whoop  like  an  In- 
dian in  a  war  dance  and  thinks  how  before 
very,  very  long  a  fellow's  fingers  won't  get 
so  cold  foddering  the  horses  and  watering 
the  stock.  February  is  Winter's  promissory 
note  to  quit  business  after  awhile  if  he  is 
left  alone  in  business  while  he  needs  to 
stay. 

17 


MARCH 


HOflAM 


.8  83JMAH3 


i\W 

mum 


MARCH  is  the  feast  of  trumpets  of  the 
year.  It  is  the  wind  month.  Jehu's  driv- 
ing was  a  jog  trot  compared  with  the  speed 
of  the  March  winds.  The  loose-speeched 
call  March  blustery.  They  should  be 
more  definite.  The  Jews  had  a  gala  festi- 
val in  which  trumpets  owned  the  air.  It  March  is  the 
was  a  jubilant  festival;  and  I  wish  I  had  Feast  °* 

.  ,  -,  m  Trumpets  of 

been  at  it  and  operated  a  trumpet.  JL  nere  ^9  Year 
is  something  victorious  in  blowing  a  horn, 
even  if  it  is  your  own.  This  the  language- 
makers  knew;  for  when  they  wanted  a 
word  to  express  triumph  they  coined  it 
from  "Juba,"  a  trumpet's  jubilant  trium- 
phant, delirious  delight.  Now  March  is  the 
trumpet  month,  the  jubilant  month.  The 
winds  bring  their  loud  sounding  trumpets 

19 


with  them,  and  wear  them  at  their  lips.  I 
confess  to  liking  the  racket  they  make.  The 
winds  hold  their  Fourth  of  July  in  March, 
and  why  not?  Wouldn't  Fourth  of  July 
be  better  in  March?  Undoubtedly.  You 
can  not  enjoy  your  own  energy  on  the  Fourth 
of  July  when  it  is  July.  July  is  too  hot  for 
ease  in  Zion  or  jollification.  You  have  to 
stop  too  often  to  mop  the  perspiration  (i.  e. 
sweat)  from  your  forehead.  This  interrupts 
the  firecrackers.  You  can 't  wipe  your  face 
and  shoot  firecrackers  at  the  identical 
second.  Even  an  acrobat  can 't  do  it ;  and 
what  acrobats  can 't  do  it  is  idle  for  the 
laity  to  attempt.  I  think  highly  of  the 
winds  for  their  change  of  time  for  their 
Fourth  of  July.  They  knew  their  business 
better  than  our  Revolutionary  Fathers 
knew  theirs.  When  March  winds  seize  a 
trumpet  then  the  bass  horn  man  in  the 
brass  band  will  do  well  to  desist.  Long 
winded  as  he  is,  the  March  wind  is  longer 
winded.  The  bass  horn  man  blows  until 
he  is  the  color  of  a  turkey  gobler's  gills, 
from  chin  to  timber  line  of  the  forehead. 
Not  so,  March  winds.  They  never  grow 
20 


The  Author 
Sets  March 
Down  as  the 
Original 

Cornetist 


red  in  the  face.  Their  wind  never  gives  March 
out.  They  are  the  original  cornetist,  and 
can't  be  beat.  How  March  winds  do  work  sea 
at  their  trade.  Not  one  indolent  chord  in 
their  throats  nor  a  fatigued  cell  in  their 
lungs.  They  press  their  lips  and  puff  their 
cheeks  and  out-trumpet  the  sea.  What 
glorious  ructions  they  have  with  each  other. 
Wind  on  wind,  gale  on  gale,  blowing  in 
each  other's  face  as  if  each  wished  to  be 
the  solitary  trumpeter  for  the  festival  of 
winds.  Some  good  friends  of  mine  are 
worried  by  March  winds.  Not  so  I.  I 
glory  in  them.  Their  rage  entices  me. 
Myself  would  blow  on  a  March  trumpet  if 
any  one  would  loan  me  one.  But  no  wind 
will.  His  long,  lean  trumpet  reaching 
from  his  lips  to  the  sky-line  is  never  taken 
from  the  lips.  March  winds  do  not  blow 
trumpets  for  fun.  That  is  their  business 
which  they  stick  to  with  astonishing  fidel- 
ity which  every  looker  on  can  testify. 
Let  us  not  be  grumpy  with  March  winds. 
They  have  a  Herculean  task  on  hand. 
They  are  trying  to  blow  the  moored  ship 
of  Winter,  large  as  an  ice-field,  glowering 
21 


as  an  ice-berg,  cold  as  the  tyrannous  North, 
— trying  to  blow  it  loose  of  anchor  and 
blow  it  into  the  open  sea.  March  winds 
are  trying  to  get  rid  of  Winter ;  and  they 
can  not  intermit  their  task  if  they  would 
accomplish  it.  Blow,  blow,  ye  March 
Winds ;  and  at  the  last  the  cruel  winter  ship 
will  break  anchor  fluke  and  hawser,  one 
or  both,  and  will  dash  out  to  sea  like  a 
defeated  navy.  You,  March  winds  are 
spring's  Rough  Riders.  You  are  boister- 
ous lovers  of  flowers  and  gentle  green  of 
spring  leaf.  You  are  April's  lovers. 
March,  it  we  have  traduced  you  in  our 
thoughts,  absolve  us.  We  knew  not  what  Blow,  Blow, 
we  did.  March,  of  the  fierce  hand  and  the  Ye  March 

t«         *•  •    «  i  .  Winds 

snarling  lip  and  the  valorous  trumpet,  give 
us  your  hand.     We  loved  and  love  you. 


22 


v 


APRIL  is  a  gentle  maiden  with  eyes  sky 
blue  and  clad  in  a  green  kirtle  braided  with 
wild  flowers.  She  has  smiling  lips;  and 
her  smile  is  warm  though  her  hands  are 
cold,  the  snow-flakes  being  not  quite 
melted  from  them  yet.  Her  voice  is  the 
blue  bird's  voice.  She  sings  with  her  lips 
closed  as  singers  who  hum  a  minor  in  an 
accompaniment  to  vocalization  and  then 
trills  like  a  surprise,  "Ber-mu-da!  Ber- 
mu-da!"  What  a  lyrist  she  is.  She  sings 
with  those  sweet  shut  lips  meant  for  kisses, 
as  the  south  wind  knows  full  well,  and 
uses  them  for  what  they  were  meant. 
April  is  the  willow's  greening  and  the  elm 
in  bloom  and  the  adventurous  grass  blades' 
surprising  emerald  in  places  sheltered 
24 


April  has 
Eyes  Sky 
Blue   and  is 
Clad  in 
Green  Kirtle 
Braided  with 
Wild   Flow- 
ers and  She 
has   Smiling 
Lips  and 
Her  Smile  is 
Warm  and 
Her  Voice  is 
the  Blue 
Bird's  Voice 


from  the  winds  but  open  to  the  sun.  And 
how  April's  stiff  fingers  thaw  out  so  as  to 
pick  the  first  violet  and  wear  it  at  her  lily 
throat !  The  blue  jay,  rough  and  ungal- 
lant,  but  touched  with  the  shy  beauty  of 
April's  form  and  face,  calls  out  in  strident  The  Frog 
encore  to  her  singing,  "Hear!  Hear! 
Hear!"  and  goes  clanging  past.  The 
frog  fingers  his  chilly  lute ;  and  the  blue 
bird  flits  from  post  to  post  like  a  winged 
amethyst ;  and  his  melody  bubbles  like  a 
gentle  spring  on  a  creek  bank.  And 
Spring  is  leaning  to  pick  cowslips  or  caress 
a  dog-tooth  violet  or  smile  at  a  Johnny- 
jump-up  as  Johnny-jump-ups  lift  their  smil- 
ing faces  tear-wet,  yet  smiling  to  hear  the 
jangling  blue  jay  call.  And  at  last  April 
is  singing  with  lips  wide  apart  like  lips  of 
a  flower;  and  her  voice  is  like  rapture  and 
her  song  is  "  Spring !  Spring !  Spring !" 


YAM 


.8 


-. . 

-.          * 


MAY  !  The  wild  crab  blossoms!  That 
is  enough  joy  for  any  month.  That  wealth  Wild  Crab 
of  aroma  drenches  the  air.  Before  the  blossoms 
blooms  come  I  anticipate  their  color,  their 
perfume,  their  wild-wood  wonder.  When 
they  blossom  I  bask  in  them  as  sunlight  on 
days  of  earliest  Spring.  When  their  leai 
withers  and  flowers  and  fragrance  are  forgot, 
I  forget  neither  fragrance  nor  petal.  They 
bloom  for  me  so  that  for  me  May  is  washed 
clean  across  by  the  wild  crab  in  bloom, 
blown  across,  all  the  glad  month,  by  the 
grace  of  promise  and  fulfillment  and  blessed 
memory.  So  is  the  wild  crab  blossom 
everywhere  in  May.  Spring  is  come  when 
May  is  come.  The  hide-and-seek  of  April 
is  past.  The  coyness  of  those  earlier  days 
is  put  aside.  May  comes  outdoors  bare- 
27 


headed  with  hair  of  burnished  gold,  bound 
by  a  blue  ribbon  of  flax  blossoms  falling 
down  on  naked  shoulders  and  toyed  with 
by  the  wind — comes  out  of  doors  and  stays 
singing  in  the  sun  all  day  and  in  the  stars 
all  night,  sheltered  only  by  the  tent  of 
heaven  like  the  wild  birds  and  neither 
lonely  nor  afraid.  In  April  we  are  never 
quite  certain  what  month  we  live,  in  save 
by  appeal  to  the  almanacs,  which  is  too 
crass  a  procedure  for  dwellers  in  the  out-of- 
doors;  but  in  May,  weather  matters  are 
settled  amicably.  We  know  where  we  are. 
The  south  wind  tells  us.  The  west  wind 
tells  us.  The  robins  tell  us.  The  apple 
blossoms  tell  us.  The  butterfly  tells  us, 
Our  late  comer  from  the  South,  the  gig- 
gling wren,  tells  us.  The  clouds  tell  us. 
The  wheat  fields  beginning  to  give  a 
sea-answer  to  the  wind,  tell  us.  Withal 
everybody  and  everything  tell  us. 
We  are  not  left  to  guess  any  longer. 
Spring  is  here  and  has  set  up  housekeeping 
for  good.  Small  wonder  is  it,  then,  the 
robin  thrusts  out  his  scarlet  breast  and 
calls,  " Goody!  Goody!  Goody!  Goody! 
28 


May    Comes 
Outdoors 
Bareheaded 
and  Her 
Hair  of 
Burnished 
Gold  is 
Bound    with 
a   Ribbon  of 
the  Flax 
Blossoms 


O  Goody!  Goody!  Goody!"  and  refuses 
to  stop  till  night  grows  dark  and  opens 
up  his  happy  laughter  again  ere  dark  is 
quit  but  earliest  morning 

"Rims  the  rock-row," 

and  calls  again  under  the  windows  of  the 
morning  star,  ''O  Goody !  Goody!  Goody !" 
May  is  here  and  Spring  has  come  to  stay. 
In  May  everything  ought  to  have  a  holiday. 
Truly  we  can  not.  Likely  enough  it  is 
not  best  for  us  or  we  would  have.  The 
birds  themselves  are  over-worked  in  balm- 
breathed  May.  Nests  are  a-building. 

T5-   j        r    IM  f,      ,,  ,  .    .  °      Goody, 

Birds,  belike,   are  Gods  prophets  giving 


the  needed  message  for  the  heart;  "Be 

Sings 


up  and  doing;"  but,  for  all,  what  a  time  to 


be  at  leisure  and  go  gadding  with  the 
swallow  whither  we  will;  to  lie  on  the 
earth  and  hear  things  grow,  and  see  the 
grass  spear  press  toward  the  sun ;  to  see 
the  flowers  swing  censers  full  of  incense  as 
a  temple  lamp,  to  hear  the  laughing  feet  of 
Spring  stepping  lightly  among  her  blossoms, 
and  hear  her  fingers  toying  with  the  fruit 
trees'  blossoms  and  hear  her  carol  till  the 
29 


lark  stays  his  limpid  note  to  hearken ;  to  feel 
the  touch  of  the  moist  lips  of  the  dew 
upon  your  face,  and  lie  out  at  night  till 
dawn,  careless  of  slumber.  Have  you 
used  the  blooming  apple  tree  as  tent  and 
slept  under  its  curtain  all  the  night  through, 
if  sleep  you  call  what  was  mostly  waking  ?  Life  is  star- 
Life  is  starlit  in  May.  All  things  wear  wings  ' 
in  May.  Every  lip  has  its  song  in  May. 
Bees  drone  and  sing  of  toil  by  every 
flower  when  May  flings  out  her  crop  of 
blossoms.  Lambs  neglect  bleating  for  joy 
of  frisking  in  May  time.  May  day !  And  the 
world  laughs  out  loud  in  mad  hilarity  when 
May  "comes  glinting  down  the  strath." 
But  when  the  wild  crab  glows  like  a  sun- 
rise, and  limbs  sprawl  out  against  the  blue 
sky  in  a  rapture  of  flowers  and  incense, 
then  May  smiles  and  laughs  loud  as  if  to 
say,  "I  am  May!  Spring  in  bloom.  May  May  Month 
am  I  named.  My  other  name  is  Gladness,  l  K*88 

.      .  .  ..  Thy  Feet 

and  the  pet  name  my  lover  calls  me  is 
Song."  And  the  wild  crab  stands  blush- 
ing with  gladness  and  distilling  honey 
breath  like  a  heather  cliff  uplifted  against 
the  sea.  May  month,  I  kiss  thy  feet 


giune 


JUNE  for  the  wild  rose  blooming !  June 
never  wears  at  her  throat  other  than  a 
wild  rose  flower,  nor  could  a  colorist  like 
Titian  conjure  up  a  tint  more  enticing  than 
the  wild  rose  tint.  It  is  the  sunrise  pink 
the  wild  rose  bush  has  had  the  genius  to 
paint  its  blossoms  with.  June  is  the  rose 
month,  I  do  not  forget  that.  But  God's 
calendar  is  not  made  by  things  men  grow 
but  by  things  God  grows  Himself. 
Maize  subjects  itself  to  cultivation  ;  but 
maize  grows  wild  even  as  it  grew  in  In- 
dian fields  and  as  a  staple  for  the  earth. 
Wild  roses,  gentle  of  perfume,  flushed  like 
the  cheeks  of  a  happy  girl,  petal  dainty 
as  cut  by  some  skilled  lapidist  from  sar- 
donyx freighted  with  wonder.  Wild  roses 
32 


Wild    Roses 
Gentle  of 
Perfume, 
Flushed 
Like  the 
Cheeks   of  a 
Happy  Girl, 
Freighted 
With   Won- 
der 


are  not  double.  I  love  them  for  that. 
The  wine  splendor  of  the  Mareschal  Neil 
rose  does  not  please  me  with  its  bulb  of 
winey  petals  as  a  single  wild  rose  does. 
Some  flowers  do  not  improve  by  doubling 
up.  The  violet  does  not.  The  rose  does 
not.  Simplicity  is  the  heritage  of  violet 
and  wild  rose.  They  are  so  satisfying  as 
they  bloom  in  the  wild  that  any  finger's 
touch  on  them  is  like  a  finger  touch  on 
the  frost  on  a  grape  cluster.  Thickets 
of  wild  roses  on  June  ravine  sides  or 
in  ravine  beds  or  clumps  of  them  across 
a  pasture  field  where  the  flocks  are  feed- 
ing, rose  thickets  smiling  out  in  per- 
fumed laughter.  O  day  in  June  when 
the  wild  rose  blooms  and  the  wind 
strays  indolent  as  drowsy  thoughts  and 
the  blue  sky  has  its  upleap  of  wonder, 
and  the  bird  nesting  in  the  rose  thickets 
tosses  on  a  spragly  bit  of  rose  branch  and 
sings  its  madrigal  in  pure  joy  of  life  and 
nest  and  rose  in  bloom  and  love — when  simplicity 
the  rose  thickets  bloom  and  June  days  is  the  Herit" 

11  111  »  11         age  of  Violet 

laugh  out  loud,  heaven  is  nearer  than  the   and  wild 
white  clouds  sailing  fleets  across  the  sky.    Rose 
33 


Such  days  are  raptures.  They  come  but 
never  go.  They  live  through  all  the  stress 
and  fret  of  winter  tempests.  June  day, 
bloom  day,  day  of  the  wild  rose  flower  and 
leaf,  day  of  sky  and  singing  stream,  June, 
wear  thy  wild  rose  flower  against  thy 
throat  now  and  forever.  I  shall  know  thee 
afar  by  that  dear  token. 

And  June  is  the  month  when  the  prai- 
rie blooms  with  spendthrift  gardening. 
When  the  June  wind  blows  free  and  full,  and 
the  wonder  and  splendor  of  youth  comes 
by,  touching  the  green  prairie  grasses, 
and  far  and  near  shine  the  multi-colored 
lights  of  prairie  wild  flowers  that  go  gyp- 
sying  with  the  wind  and  bees,  then  see 
what  God  does  on  a  day  in  June  upon  the 
wide,  wild  width  of  prairie  madcapping  to- 
ward the  sky.  Then  Rapture  catches  your 
hand  and  leads  you  as  he  will.  In  June, 
along  the  lush  prairie  plains  grow  the  un- 
counted multitude  of  the  spiderwort,  the 
stately  stalks  flowered  out  to  blue  so  that  I 
have  seen  spaces  blue  as  the  skies  of  Par- 
adise, stately  guardsmen  holding  up  their 
banner  of  blue,  it  is  a  vision  meet  for  the 
34 


Such  Days 
are  Raptures 
that  Come 
Bat  Never 
Go 


heart.  And  the  wild  pea  lifts  and  flings  its 
sprawling  branches  above  the  top  of  prai- 
rie grass  and  tosses  out  a  sprangle  of  yel- 
low flowers  like  warm  sunlight,  and  the 
brown-eyed  susans  flash  yellow  as  gold 
with  their  brown  eyes  looking  intently  at 
the  sun's  face  as  to  see  if  their  lord  be 
looking ;  the  wild  indigo  with  its  frond-like 
fern  almost  as  gray  as  ashes  and  its 
purplish  bloom  as  if  it  had  seen  the  heather 
smile  and  were  mimicking  the  smile;  the 
blazing  star  lifts  its  cluster  of  spools  twined 
about  with  red  thread;  and  the  prairie 
cactus  stands  very  big  and  forbidding  with 
their  blades  in  battle  mood ;  and  the  paint 
root  blooms  out  its  red  as  with  intent  to 
anger  a  bull  that  bellows  about  the  pasture; 
and  the  lark  whips  the  wind  with  its  wings 
and  spurts  its  limpid  song,  and  the  curlew 
calls,  and  the  plover  hovers  ere  he  lights; 
and  the  grasses  are  in  a  reel  of  hilarious- 
ness  when  the  winds  rollic  far.  June,  love 
month,  rapture  month,  sweet  June  and  the 
prairie,  sweet  June  and  the  wild  rose ! 


The  Lark 
has  His 
Spurts  of 
Limpid 
Song  and 
the  Curlew 
Calls  and 
the  Prairie 
Wind  is 
Wild  With 
Glee 


35 


P»  A.  CARRIKR 


.A  . 


JULY  is  the  working  man,  brawny,  naked 
armed,  sunburned,  bare-breasted,  huge- 
handed,  man-handed,  naked-handed.  July 
is  the  farmer  of  the  year.  Stalwart,  singing 
like  a  plowboy,  working  like  an  owner  of  July  is 
a  farm  glad  for  the  chance.  July  fairly  *™y' 
tires  a  strong  man  out  just  by  its  tireless-  Huge-handed 
ness  of  toil.  July  doesn't  grow  fatigued; 
but  you  do,  watching  him.  Everything 
leaps  toward  flower  or  fruit.  Harvests 
yellow  on  plains  and  hill.  Seen  from 
afar  the  golden  wheat  fields  with  their 
thousand  tents  mind  you  of  Heaven 
whose  pavements  are  all  of  gold.  Black- 
berries are  ripe.  Things  grown  in  gardens 
are  ready  and  make  your  mouth  water. 
Then  wild  iris  blooms  in  marshy  places. 

37 


Then  the  herds  pant  in  the  shadow  of 
the  woods  or  stand  in  the  stream  knee- 
deep  and  fight  flies  with  the  wet  brush  of 
their  tails.  Corn  is  growing  like  mad  and 
casting  brave  shadows.  Apples  are  bulk-  . 

0  ,  Growing  and 

ing  on  the  branches  showing  what  they  are  casting 
about  to  be,  not  exactly  soon,  but  pretty  Brave 

~  .  ,.  fi-i      Shadows 

soon.  Grapes  are  clusters  of  emerald  with 
not  a  hint  of  purple  but  beautiful  to  see. 
Bees  are  working  eighteen  hours  a  day, 
knowing  no  eight-hour  law.  They  are 
farmers  for  long  hours.  Streams  are  go- 
ing dry,  if  they  flow  through  prairies,  and 
stand  in  diminished  pools  in  the  woodlands. 
Mullein  stands  his  straightest  and  has  his 
spike  of  yellow  flowers  and  his  velvet  foli- 
age. Forest  trees  are  tigering  it  into  grow- 
ing, sending  out  long  thrusts  of  growing 
stalks  which  by  and  by  graduate  into 
branches.  The  eaves  of  the  chicken  coop 
are  full  of  the  chatter  of  the  sociable  wren. 
Argosies  of  white  clouds  sail  at  the  wind's 
will  across  the  summer  sky,  beautiful  to  see 
far  beyond  the  telling.  Thunder  heads  lift 
white  as  snow  peaks  range  on  range  or 
bulk  black  like  basalt  cliffs;  for  the  day 

38 


portends  a  tempest.  The  red  bird  whistles 
for  fun.  The  indigo  bird  with  his  insinua- 
ting voice  sings  from  a  telephone  wire. 
Mourning  doves  drift  along  the  fields  in 
company,  father,  mother,  children  all  out 
for  an  evening's  frolic.  The  wheat  fields 
are  peopled  with  farmer  folk  loading  the 
wheat  for  stacking  or  thrashing.  Every- 
body works  in  July.  Even  the  firecracker 
does.  The  days  are  hot  but  arduous. 
Things  are  doing  when  July  rolls  up  his 
sleeves.  But  his  toiling  is  as  the  toiling 
of  the  happy  heart.  No  peevish  scolding, 
no  querulous  fault-finding,  only  a  radiant 
joy  of  having  work  to  do  and  rejoicing  in  the 
doing  of  it.  Now  is  the  time  to  lie  under 
trees  flat  on  your  back  and  forget  your 
book  and  watch  the  swaying  branches  to 
reveal  a  patch  of  blue  sky  which  always 
comes  to  your  eyes,  no  matter  how  often 
seen,  as  a  distinct  surprise.  We  can  not  NOW  is  the 

grow  used  to  the  sky.     It  refuses  to  be   Time  to  Lie 

i  IT.       •   j  i.  Under  the 

commonplace.     1  he  wind  hunts  you  up  as   Trees  Flat 

thinking  you  are  hiding.    The  shadows  and   on  Your 
the  warmth  make  you  drowsy.     The  tree   !?ack  an^ 

'  ft  Forget  Your 

chuckles  a  little  through  all  his  branches    Book 
39 


when  the  wind  comes  sparking.     If  you  lie  sycamore 

beneath  the  sycamore  the  broad  serrate  Sp^8g 

leaves  will  poke  fun  at  you  by  turning  edge-  sunshine 
wise  against  the  sun  and  spilling  a  whole 

cupful   of  dazzling   sunshine   upon   your  Eyes 
drowsy  eyes.    July  is  the  year's  hired  man. 


40 


T2UOUA 


.8  83JJJAHO 


AUGUST  is  here ;  and  maize  is  growing. 
Maize  owns  August  body  and  soul.     Au- 
gust is,  so  to  say,  a  grower  of  corn.    I  have  August  is 
called  this  esculent  "maize"  because  corn 

Corn 

is  an  old  world  word  meaning  any  cereal. 
Maize  is  an  Indian  word  meaning  only  what 
America  had  to  plant  and  grow.  Those 
crass,  indolent  Indian  farmers  (if  it  be  not 
a  sin  to  call  their  shabby  culture  farming, 
at  all)  are  dead ;  but  the  maize  they  played 
at  growing,  we  Americans  work  at  grow- 
ing and  have  made  one  of  the  staples 
of  the  world.  All  Americans  are  proud 
of  their  corn  crop.  I  wish  they  might  call 
it  their  maize  crop.  But  called  as  it  may 
be,  the  crop  is  very  great  and  feeds  the 
herds  that  feed  the  world.  Indian  corn  is 
42 


a  stately  vegetable.  None  like  it.  A 
corn  field  is  a  valorous  sight,  being  like  an 
army  of  crusaders  with  spears  tufted  with 
a  lady's  favor  and  pennants  waving.  I 
confess  to  loving  the  sight  of  a  corn  field. 
Stately,  strong,  tall,  spear-like,  graceful, 
music-making  when  the  wind  wanders 
through  the  corn  rows,  sword-edged;  for 
every  corn  blade  is  a  sword  blade,  and  I 
have  bled  often  at  the  edge  of  their  swords 
at  play.  And  when  corn  tassels,  as  it  does 
in  August,  and  when  corn  silks  as  it  does 
in  August,  and  the  pollen  begins  to  fly  and 
fall  from  the  plumed  tassel  down  on  the 
silk,  red  or  soft  silk-yellow  but  fine-spun 
as  woven  by  a  silk  weaver,  and  the  air  is 
redolent  with  the  smell  of  the  pollen  till 
the  sky  is  sweet  as  heather  dew  ;  when  the 
corn  stays  up  at  nights  to  grow,  and  you 
can  hear  its  joints  crack  in  the  passion  for 
growing,  then  August  is  at  its  noon.  Know 
you  not  the  poetry  of  August  growing 
corn  ?  Then  are  you  much  benighted.  In 
a  fence  corner  hemmed  in  on  two  sides  by 
woods  sweltered  on  by  the  sun,  this  maize 
field  in  the  picture  makes  me  hear  the 
43 


When  the 
Corn  Silks 
and   Tassels 
and 

Perfumes 
the  Hot 
Noon  With 
its  Breath 


swish  of  playing  swords  of  the  corn  blades 
when  we  smell  the  corn  scent  and  see  the 
stately  riders  line  on  line  with  spears  erect, 
with  banners  set  marching,  marching  for 
the  helping  of  the  world.  It  is  a  brave 
sight  and  very  heartening.  Would  Jan 
Ridd,  neighbor  of  Bagworthy  forest,  had 
been  here  to  see  and  enjoy  it. 

August  is  the  month  of  what  I  will  call 
delirious  heat.  I  love  the  swelter  of  it.  I 
walk  long  miles  in  August  just  for  the  fun 
of  being  out  in  the  broiling  sunshine  in  my 
shirt  sleeves.  Some  people  would  per- 
spire in  this  condition.  I  do  n't.  I  sweat. 
That  is  more  August-like  and  is  likewise 
more  to  my  liking.  What  palatable  heat 
August  heat  is.  How  it  fairly  smokes  up 
from  the  fields.  Corn  requires  furnace  August  Heat 


OU8 


heat  ;    and    through    August  —  I    may    be    is 

T        f  .  .     j  f     and  Delici- 

amiss,  I  often  am,  in  the  judgment  of 
my  friends;  but  I  am  of  opinion  that  August 
heat  is  different  and  better  than  the  other 
heats  of  the  year  —  I  fairly  bathe  in  it  as 
in  a  limpid  stream.  I  walk  and  sweat  and 
sweat  and  walk.  I  do  not  grow  querulous 
but  glad.  As  I  am  taking  my  long  glad  Au- 
44 


Quail 

Whistles    at 
Noon 


gust  walk  the  quail  begins  to  pipe  at  noon. 
He  is  not  a  noon  musician  in  the  usual, 
rather  the  dewy  morning  and  sunset  even- 
ing are  his  music  hours  ;  but  in  August  he 
is  so  glad  for  the  spendthrift  sunshine  that 
he  changes  his  routine  and  at  noon  calls  NOW  the 
across  the  glistening  fields  of  corn,  "  Bob 
White!"  "Bob  White!"  "Bob  White!" 
This  time  I  timed  him,  and  with  regu- 
larity of  a  watch  at  almost  eleven  sec- 
onds he  would  cheerily  call,  "  Bob  White !" 
"Bob  White!"  I  love  his  music-making 
on  his  oaten  pipe  but  never  more  than  at 
this  August  noon. 

August  is  the  month  of  insect  music. 
I  do  not  advert  to  the  mosquito.  He  is 
a  cannibal,  and  I  can  prove  it ;  and  it  be- 
hooves no  Christian  to  give  page  room  to 
cannibals,  so  none  of  mine.  O  what  a 
heyday  of  music  the  insects  make  in  Au- 
gust! I  revel  in  it.  Then  the  crickets 
chir.  Then  the  tree  toad  sets  his  catarrh 
instrument  going.  Then  the  wild  bees 
hum  drowsily  enough  to  put  you  to  sleep 
be  you  never  so  wide  awake.  Then  the 
tame  bees  go  into  the  false  clover  blossoms 

45 


so 


and  drink  them  dry  at  a  single  gulp.  Then 
a  score  of  voices  chime  coming  from  what 
insects  I  can  not  tell  but  full  of  all  that 
blessed  gladness  which  God  has  so  kindly 
put  into  the  heart  of  every  living  thing. 
I  listen  and  praise.  Such  a  happy  world,  Such  a 
so  full  of  song.  In  August,  birds  have  w 
grown  tired  singing  or  are  grown  too  fat  Full  of  Song 
to  sing,  and  in  any  case  sing  but  little. 
Then  the  insects  tune  up.  At  night,  the 
tree  toads  set  up  such  storm  of  minstrelsy 
as  that  you  think  them  tipsy  at  a  wake. 
They  are  tipsy  drinking  evening  dew.  At 
noon  and  night  and  the  day  through,  you 
shall  hear  the  strident  locust  which  in  the 
Spring  you  seldom  hear,  save  at  evening. 
How  the  locust's  voice  —  cicada  the  Greeks 
called  him,  but  I  like  not  his  Greek  name, 
I  favor  America's  —  with  its  blur  of  sound 
delights  my  ear  and  makes  me  elate.  I 
go  and  stand  near  a  branch  of  a  hedge  and  , 
wait  till  he  tunes  up  again  and  fairly  stum- 
bles in  his  tune  so  glad  is  he  in  life.  So 
is  the  August  heat  squeezing  his  music  out 
of  him  as  honey  from  the  comb.  August 
46 


with  shirt  open  at  the  throat  but  with  smil- 
ing lips  and  rollicking  laughter,  tending 
corn  and  ripening  grapes  and  bidding  the  August  i 
quail  and  the  locust  be  jocund  as  a  running  Love 
water  brook — August  I  love  thee ! 


47 


.2  ea.i»AHD 


September 

SEPTEMBER  is  the  grape  month.  What  September 
other  praise  needs  to  be  sung  for  Septem- 
ber? One  look  at  the  vineyard  in  the  pic- 
ture suffices  to  put  a  body  in  love  with  the 
month  that  holds  such  clusters  in  her  hand. 
What  can  be  more  artistic  than  a  grape  clus- 
ter shadowed  by  grape  leaves  ?  The  color, 
the  grape  shape,  the  hoar  frost  wherewith 
God  has  seen  fit  to  cloud  the  purple  of 
His  grape  cluster,  the  way  clusters  hang 
with  indolence  luxuriously  graceful  as  a  Ve- 
netian gondolier,  the  mild  fragrance  which 
gives  to  every  vineyard  its  own  atmosphere. 
The  bees  know  where  to  come  and  seek 
this  wine  ready  for  their  lips.  The  sky  half 
Summer  and  half  Fall;  the  clouds  blown 
and  scattered  and  very  high  and  very,  very 

49 


lovely  and  wistful  as  a  woman's  eyes  look- 
ing for  him  she  loves  :  and  the  crows  caw- 
ing diligently  from  the  shag  of  woods  on  the 
hill  :  the  hawk  taking  leisurely  yet  magnifi- 
cent flight,  having  fun  for  himself  in  the  sky 
which  he  evidently  thinks  he  owns  and  thinks 
made  for  his  pinions  :  the  sunshine  growing 
a  trifle  dreamy  like  a  poet  :  the  winds  dawd- 
ling with  the  clustering  grapes  seen  through 
lattices  of  leaves.  September,  what  a  god- 
dess thou  art  in  any  wise  !  Who  can  choose 
but  love  if  he  have  the  seeking  heart  ?  In 
September  the  sweat  of  growth  is  ended. 
The  rush  toward  fruitage  has  given  way  to 
the  quiet  smile  as  at  evening  after  work 
is  done.  Maize  ears  lop  and  its  blades  be- 
gin to  grow  toward  gold  and  rasp  in  the  wind 
like  a  rusting  sword.  Summer  clouds  are 
departed.  September  days  by  their  clouds, 
note  on  the  dial,  Summer  is  ended.  The 
piled-up  wonder  of  thunder  heads  no  longer 
fills  the  horizon  with  amazing  mountains  TheSun- 

nor  drifts  huge  bergs  through  a  sea  of  blue  *hmels 

i        r-i     j  j-     u  TU 

sky.    Clouds  are  grown  diaphanous.     1  hey 


straggle,  blown  bits  of  wonder  incompre-  Dreamy  Like 
hensible  in  grace  and  full  of  all  the  mystery 
50 


and  sorrow  of  evanishment.  September 
clouds  make  your  heart  ache.  I  look  at 
them  with  a  mood  of  tears.  They  seem  so 
fragile  as  if  a  glance  of  the  eye  would  dis- 
sipate them  though  they  are  actually  more 
stable  then  clouds  of  Summer.  The  winds 
which  have  blown  them  out  like  banners 
seem  to  have  fallen  fast  asleep  ;  but  the 
cloud  banners  refuse  to  let  their  white 
and  silken  folds  fall  asleep  with  the  sleep- 
ing winds. 

September  is  the  month  of  putting  up 
prairie  hay.  I  would  not  deny  that  this 
same  putting  up  hay  is  to  my  knowledge 
something  besides  fun;  but  for  all  that, 
haying  on  the  prairie  has  its  poetry  and  its 
fun.  I  who  have  nosed  around  much 
among  the  haycocks  will  be  bold  to  say  that 
no  fragrance  of  haying  is  to  be  compared 
to  the  fragrance  of  the  prairie  hay.  And  to 
lie  by  moonlight  on  prairie  hay  is  better  than 
beds  of  down.  When  prairie  winds  blow 
free  and  two  men  toss  whole  haycocks 
on  top  of  you  as  you  build  the  load  and 
you  are  drenched  with  the  grass  odor  and 
deluged  with  the  South  wind,  then  haying 

51 


September 
Clouds  Make 
One's    Heart 
Ache.     To 
Look  at 
Them  is  to 
Have  the 
Mood  of 
Tears 


to 


Poetry 


has  become  perilously  like  poetry.  Septem- 
ber is  to  be  written  down  in  the  calendar  of 
such  as  know  the  prairies  as  the  month  of 
prairie  haying.  And  never  September  Making 
comes  but  I  think  of  a  stooped  man  with 
blue  keen,  laughing  eyes  and  shag  of  beard  Becomes 
and  hands  rough  as  tree  bark  and  strength 
like  the  strength  often  and  voice  like  a  Win- 
ter's gale  for  opulence  of  wind  and  music, 
and  how  he  used  to  pitch  hay  fields  to  me  and 
I  would  load  the  hay  fields  he  pitched,  and 
then  would  unload  and  he  would  stack;  and 
I  would  give  —  O,  I  would  give  years  of 
living  to  see  him  only  once  and  that  once 
but  five  minutes  —  but  I  must  wait  till  the 
morning  breaketh  and  the  shadows  flee 
away. 


MUHOT'JO 


!  1  Jt  A  H ' ) 


OCTOBER  I  call  the  aster  month,  though    i  call  Octo- 
to  be  candid  that  is  a  whim ;  it  is  like  call-    ber> a  Pet 

111  IT  Name 

ing  your  beloved  pet  names.  You  name 
them  for  fun.  You  call  them  what  you  do 
as  David  Copperfield  called  Dora,  "Mouse." 
We  give  pet  names  not  by  logic,  but  by 
freak  of  tenderness  or  playfulness  or  chance 
suggestion.  So  I  do  October.  I  call  it 
aster  month.  Not  but  that  is  true  enough. 
I  do  not  seem  to  know  how  to  prevaricate 
even  in  my  least  ethical  moments.  So 
great  is  character!  In  my  sleep  when  I 
talk  I  talk  facts.  How  wholly  admirable 
this  is !  True,  this  has  been  suggested  by 
such  as  are  envious  of  my  uprightness  that 
about  the  only  time  I  do  tell  the  truth  is 
when  I  talk  in  my  sleep.  This  talk,  of 
course,  is  frivolous  in  the  extreme. 
54 


So,  though  I  call  October  aster  month 
by  way  of  giving  this  beloved  season  a  pet 
name  it  is  accurate  in  meaning.  Then  the 
asters  own  the  highways  and  byways  and 
quiet  fields  and  cluster  like  girls  in  beauti- 
ful groups.  But  October  is  Indian  Sum- 
mer month  and  month  of  much  besides. 
But  wan  October,  you  of  the  dimmed  sky 
and  the  drooping  eyelids,  and  hectic  cheek, 
and  drowsy  distances,  and  clouds  high  and 
fallen  asleep,  and  leaf  a-flutter,  falling  but 
loath  to  fall — chaste  October,  with  thy 
starry  aster  fields  in  tryst  with  thee. 

Asters,  how  I  love  them !  Though  as  I 
give  this  matter  thought,  what  wild  flower 
do  I  not  love?  They  are  all  favorites.  Some 
I  love  more,  but  none  least.  Sometimes  I 
have  had  a  silly  conceit  that  God  set  them 
to  their  trick  of  blooming  for  me  !  It  was 
a  foolish  thought,  of  which  sort  I  have  many. 
And  yet  as  I  con  this  pleasant  theme,  I  see 
my  thought  was  not  all  like  a  poet's  conceit. 
In  a  wise  true  way  God  did  mean  each 
flower  for  me.  A  flower  is  his  who  loves 
it.  Every  posy  is  a  God  gift  to  the  one 
who  plucks  it  for  love  of  it.  God  picks  the 

55 


October  is 
Indian  Sum- 
mer Month, 
That  and 
More 


posy  and  hands  it  to  the  hand  held  out 
for  it  ;  and  do  I  not  hold  out  my  hand  for 
each  wild  flower  in  its  turn,  and  does  not 
God  put  each  flower  in  its  turn  in  my  hol- 
den-out  hand  ?  '  '  My  wild  flower  '  '  still  I  say 
so,  finding  my  foolishness  was  my  wisdom.  to  October 
And  in  October  I  hold  out  my  hand  for 


the  aster.  Those  rosettes  bloom  profusely  the  Aster 
but  never  one  too  many  blooms  for  me. 
I  love  each  as  if  it  were  rare  orchid  grown 
far  up  among  the  thick  shadows  of  the  Ama- 
zon nigh  the  Andes  roots.  White  asters, 
what  stars  they  are,  white-rayed  sun-cen- 
tered, tossing  topsy  turvy  to  winds  which 
go  not  by  steady  and  onward  goings  but 
with  sudden  jumps  like  a  rabbit's  running. 
White  asters  have  tiny  faces  but  faces  fairy 
sweet.  The  stalk  is  many-branched  and 
the  branches  are  many-flowered.  I  have 
counted  a  hundred  blooms  on  a  single  stem. 
No  parsimony  shall  you  find  with  the  white 
aster.  Who  can  tell  how  full  of  heart'  s-ease 
that  flower  is?  Sometimes  the  flower  is 
lilac  colored,  sometimes  dim  white,  some- 
times subtle  purple,  always  subtle  beauty. 
In  New  England  on  the  slow  roll  of  Octo 
56 


ber  hills  drenched  with  autumnal  splendor, 
I  have  seen  purple  asters  toss  out  sprangles 
of  flowers  dyed  in  the  fresh  squeeezed 
juices  of  the  grape.  And  in  Kansas  along 
hedge  roads  where  wagons  climb  wearily  a 
little  hill,  there  have  I  gathered  these  flow- 
ers of  Paradise.  They  never  tire  me,  as  I 
truly  hope  I  never  tire  them.  We  are  al- 
ways friends,  the  asters  and  I.  They  know 
I  love  them  as  I  believe,  but  anyhow  I  know 
I  do ;  and  that  suffices.  Certain  it  is  that 
asters  are  an  October  flower.  The  golden 
rod  now  and  then  flings  out  its  flaming 
banner  but  mainly  the  gold  is  tarnished. 
These  flowers  are  in  October  past  their 
prime.  Sunflowers  have  squandered  their 
estate  of  sunshine.  But  asters  love  Octo- 
ber. When  others  are  leaving,  asters  are 
coming  like  a  belated  guest.  They  do  not 
apologize  for  late  arrival  and  have  no  need 
to.  They  come  when  they  get  ready. 
We  will  wait  till  they  arrive.  We  will 
love  them  not  less  but  more  because  of  their 
late  laughter.  If  asters  came  in  May 
when  all  the  spaces  of  the  fields  and 
woods  were  populous  in  beauty  they  might 

57 


1  Have  Seen 
Purple  As- 
ters Toss 
Out 

Sprangles 
of  Flowers 
Dyed  in  the 
Fresh 
Squeezed 
Juices  of  the 
Grapes 


be  one  mercy  among  many ;  but  when 
they  delay  their  coming  till  October  then 
they  are  the  one  mercy  a-blossoming. 
They  are  stars  fetched  from  the  night  skies 
and  planted  on  the  fields  of  day  where  we 
ground  folks  may  pick  them  and  wear  the 
stars  in  our  houses  for  adorning. 

In  October  the  birds  are  grown  neigh- 
borly. They  are  flocking  so  as  to  be 
gone  from  us.  Robins  in  Summer  cared 
for  none  of  their  kind  save  their  immedi- 
ate family  (wife's  folks  don't  count  with 
robins),  but  when  October  comes  blood 
tells  and  robins  cluster  in  rose-breasted 
brigades  as  some  rich-clad  soldiery.  I 
have  counted  in  a  group  this  October  a 
hundred  and  twenty  robins  taking  supper 
on  a  single  sward.  They  are  grown  socia-  in  October 
ble  making  ready  for  their  Southward  flight.  Asters  are 
It  brings  autumn  to  my  heart  to  think  of  Mercy 
the  going  of  the  birds;  but  I  know  when  they 
return  they  will  bring  Springtime  with  them 
to  my  heart,  and  so  I  begin  my  tune  in 
minors  but  end  it  in  rejoicing  majors. 

The  blackbirds  always  social,  in  Octo- 
58 


her  gather  in  black  clouds  which  change 
when  they  go  out  to  practice  flying  ma- 
noeuvers  for  the  long  southward  flight. 
Their  voices  click  and  click  as  if  their 
wings  needed  oiling.  How  they  fling  in 
spirals  up  and  out  and  back  and  down  and  Bum8  Red 

na    Sunsets 

fill  a  clump  of  trees  with  their  blinding 
cloud  of  midnight  murk  and  their  unnum- 
bered voices  all  saying,  one  way  or  an- 
other, "Ordered  South."  Birdies,  you 
make  my  heart  ache.  Cease  your  moan. 

And  October  has  the  crimson  wood- 
bine. Then  ivy  burns  red  as  sunsets. 
Then  emerald  columns  are  like  the  pine 
trunk  girdled  with  furious  flame.  Then 
the  forest  of  ivy-grown  trunks,  such  I  have 
seen  along  the  Kaw,  are  like  a  whole  pine 
forest  in  conflagration.  The  wine-flame 
runs  up  the  trunk,  girdles  it,  runs  out  the 
branches,  flings  out  a  swaying  spray  of 
fire  past  the  last  limb  twig,  sways  in  the 
wind,  blazing  but  not  consumed. 

The  birds  circle  and  rush  like  stormy 
wind,  the  ivy  pillars  burn  but  refuse  to 
burn  to  ashes,  the  asters  laugh  out  loud 
59 


along  all  fields  and  up  all  hillsides  and  by 

all  laggard  roadways.     The  birds  own  the 

sky :  the  fiery  pillars  own  the  woods ;  but  But  Asters 

asters,   purple   and  white,  own  the  fields  Own  the 

e  .   .  .  Fields  From 

from  prairie  to  the  sea.  Prairie  to 

Sea 


60 


.8 


NOVEMBER  is  month  of  leaf  fall.  Not 
that  this  month  monopolizes  that  melan- 
choly poetry.  October  is  much  given  to 
it.  But  November  has  that  for  a  business. 
If,  when  November  puts  lean  finger  across 
the  lips  and  stumbles  out  in  the  dark  to 
die,  any  leaves  are  left  dangling  on  a 
naked  branch,  it  is  because  the  leaf  has 
inherent  tenacities  which  are  wholly  out 
of  the  usual.  Some  leaves  refuse  to  fall 
until  Spring  comes  and  thrusts  them  off 
to  make  way  for  the  greenery  of  the  year 
new  born.  Not  death  but  life  kills  some 
forest  leaves.  But  November  is  assiduous 
to  strip  each  gaudy  rag  of  finery  from  every 
tree.  November  kindles  the  last  flame  on 
the  hearth  of  the  year  and  then  drenches 
62 


November 
Kindles  the 
Last  Flame 
on  the 
Hearth  of 
the  Year 


to  gray  ashes  its  many  chemic  lights  by 
the  downpour  of  the  voluble  November 
rains. 

This  leaf  fall  must  be  set  down  as  the 
pathos  of  the  year.  Much  as  you  may 
love  the  glory  of  the  Fall  you  can  not 
keep  your  heart  from  aching  when  the 
leaves  turn  from  flame  to  oak  leaf  subtle, 
sullen  brown  when  all  the  glowing  leaves 
drop  one  by  one  or  in  companies  drenched  the  Pathos 
in  their  unthinkable  splendor  and  the  wind 
sweeps  them  into  eddies  and  swirls  them 
into  new  piles  of  wine  and  rinsed  sunshine 
and  all  the  intermediary  colors,  so  that  you 
seem  to  be  looking  on  wrecked  rainbows 
lying  on  the  woodland  path.  Cottonwoods 
change  from  their  shiny  green  glittering 
like  metallic  leaves  to  the  wan  yellow  as  of 
faded  sunlight  and  hold  on,  rainy  sunshine 
answering  to  the  wind  and  disinclined  to 
be  still  or  to  be  thrust  away  from  their  rainy 
minstrelsy.  But  one  after  one  these  leaves 
let  go,  their  weakened  fingers  having  lost 
grip  and  their  hearts  having  lost  courage; 
and  when  November  "  falls  on  sleep  "  the 
last  yellow  heart  has  been  broken  ;  and  the 

63 


cottonwoods  stand  stripped  to  the  skin  like 
a  naked  swimmer;  and  November  winds 
use  the  bare  twigs  for  the  strings  of  a  harp 
on  which  to  make  November  threnody.         November 
All  bushes  of  undergrowth   save   the  w^*8"8* 

it  i  •     i       /•  i       i  t116 Bare 

wild  gooseberry  are  emptied  of  boskage.   Twigs  for 
You  can  see  through  the  underwood  far  as  ****  strings 
the  eye  can  travel  through  the  pillars  of  ^hkJfJ] 
the  trees.    Of  the  leaves  we  say  with  chok-  Make  No- 
ing  breath  :  vember 

Threnody 

"After  life's  fitful  fever  they  sleep  well." 

I  know  not  if  there  is  poetry  beyond 
the  walking  in  the  woods  full  of  falling 
leaves,  full  of  precious  odors,  rusty-voiced 
to  the  goings  of  your  feet,  multitudinous 
beyond  the  counting,  what  used  to  be  a 
cloud  now  come  to  be  a  coverlid,  what 
used  to  whisper 

"Like  the  music  of  seas  far  away," 

now  rustling  to  the  walking  feet  of  men  or 
the  bounding  feet  of  squirrel  or  rabbit  or 
the  pranking  feet  of  the  notionate  wild 
wind  or  the  clicking  tread  of  quail  coveys, 
leaf  and  brood  so  much  a  color  as  that 
64 


trained  eyes  can  not  tell  bird  from  leaf  save 
as  the  bird  flutters  above  the  fluttering 
leaves.  Leaves  are  always  beautiful,  al- 
ways beneficial.  When  Spring  first  hangs 
them  out  they  are  radiant  and  tiny  or  big- 
ger or  biggest,  but  flash  like  an  emerald 
held  as  to  catch  the  light.  When  Summer 

,  r     ,       ,  ,     Wind,  Blow 

conies  they  grow  profusion  of  shadow  and  on  Me  With 
music  and  whisper  or  sing  each  to  other  Thy  Breath 
all  day  long  and  all  night  long,  ever  mov- 
ing, never  quiet.  How  seldom  have  I  seen 
leaves  at  absolute  rest.  Their  sails  catch 
all  the  dreams  of  wind  breath  and  fluff  on 
the  wind  gladly  as  saying,  "Sweet  Wind,  am 
I  not  thine?  Blow  on  me  with  thy  breath; 
thy  faintest  kiss  shall  thrill  me.  I  wait  for 
thee."  This  restless  answering  of  Sum- 
mer leaves  has  always  struck  me  as  being 
motion  all  but  as  perpetual  as  the  flowing 
of  a  stream,  only  a  stream  must  flow  while 
the  leaf,  were  it  not  so  eager  for  the  wind, 
might  fall  quiet.  But  every  leaf  thinks  it 
is  a  sail  of  some  sweet  Argonaut  and  must 
answer  for  the  goings  of  the  ship. 

Then  when  leaf  fall  comes  the  elm  leaves 
grow  unsmiling  brown  and  sycamore  leaves 

65 


crinkle  in  their  haughty  smiling  like  lips  of 
a  dying  aristocrat,  and  soft  maples  gather  a 
gentle  light  on  them  like  an  unthoughted 
smile,  and  sugar  trees  kindle  their  bonfires 
which  burn  so  amazingly  as  to  almost  make 
the  dark  night  light,  and  the  oak  leaves  set 
up  violent  conflagrations,  and  the  tulip  trees 
pour  down  with  lavish  hand  the  golden  splen- 
dor in  which  when  one  wades  he  thinks  he 
wades  in  the  surf  of  a  golden  sea,  and  the 
beech  trees  stand  and  smile  and  smile  In 
subtle  sunlight  laughter,  and  the  ivies  spill 
all  their  hearts'  blood  out  upon  their  gar- 
ments so  that  you  are  persuaded  they  have 
died  of  a  broken  heart — when  are  leaves 
not  miracles  ?  Their  office,  we  are  told  by 
botanists,  is  to  imbibe  sunlight  for  the  trees. 
They  are  bibulous,  only  they  drink  not  wine  we  wade  in 
but  sunshine.  They  are  working  for  the  the  Surf  of  a 
trees  whose  leaves  they  are,  and  on  which 
they  cast  bewilderment  of  shadow.  But 
they  do  not  think  they  work  and  do  not 
know  they  work.  They  have  long  holiday. 
They  are  as  birds  which,  while  they  are  house- 
building and  house-keeping  and  caring  for 
their  birdies  of  the  hungry  cry,  yet,  in  it 
66 


all,  think  they  are  having  fun — do  not  toil, 
but  rejoice.  So  the  leaves  toil,  but  know  it 
not  They  think  they  are  set  to  catch  the 
moonlight  and  the  morning  and  the  light 
of  stars  and  the  caressing  of  the  winds  and 
when  they  die,  their  death  is  as  exquisite 
as  the  death  of  the  "Lady  of  Shalott." 

"In  the  stormy  east -wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining, 

Over  tower 'd  Camelot, 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white, 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 

6? 


Leaves 
Think   They 
are  Set  to 
Catch  the 
Moonlight 
and  the 
Morning  and 
the  Light  Of 
Stars  and 
the  Caress- 
ing of  the 
Winds 


The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot. 
As  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken' d  wholly 

Turn'd  to  tower' d  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reach 'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

And  they  make  blankets  under  which 
spring  flowers  sleep,  shut  in  from  storms 
and  shut  out  from  winter,  so  that  when 
April  trills  its  blue-bird  call  and  the  flowers 
wake,  they  smiling  like  a  waking  child,  ask, 
"Have  I  slept  all  night?"  Tree  leaves, 
you  are  a  parable  of  service  set  to  song. 
I  wish  my  heart  might  catch  your  music, 
nor  let  its  flute  note  vanish  evermore. 

November,  what  are  you  doing  with 
your  nervous  fingers?  And  November, 
68 


Heart 

Would  Thou 
Couldst 
Catch   Leaf 
Music  Nor 
Let  its  Flute 
Note  Vanish 
Ever  More 


staying  in  nothing  from  the  thing  she  does 
answers  in  her  voice  like  moaning,  "  I  am 
picking  leaves."  And  November  is. 
With  diligence,  which  I  have  sometimes 
thought  might  be  better  applied  she  is 
picking  leaves.  Idly  withal,  though  with 
such  ironic  diligence,  drifting  them  on  the 
rude  earth,  aglow  with  rainbow  tints,  pick- 
ing day  and  night,  never  ceasing,  never 
ceasing,  till  at  last  the  lone  crow  in  the 
leafless  tree  lords  it  over  the  world.  The 
leafless  tree,  with  its  one  black,  funereal  one 
plume  of  the  dusky  bird  in  the  leafless  wood  eal  plume  of 

r     i  f         i     t      XT  i  Dusky  Bird 

is  a  picture  of  the  melancholy  November. 
To  walk  in  the  leafless  woods,  to  see 
the  dull  gray  of  the  clouded  sky  covered 
not  by  clouds  but  by  a  single  wide  stretched 
cloud 

' '  ashen  and  sober, ' ' 

which  covers  the  sky,  leaving  not  a  speck 
of  blue  as  big  as  an  evening  star,  gray- 
sailed  clouds  own  the  heavens,  and  the 
leaves  are  under  your  feet  and  sullen 
winds  blow  above  your  head,  and  the  crows 
call  from  the  woods,  remote  and  near,  and 
69 


the  wind  swings  lash  out  over  his  galley  The  wind 

slaves  of  leaves  and  drives  them  hither  ^ 

and  yon  as  he  will,  filled  with  the  lust  of  withered 

conscious  tyranny ;  and  the  leaves  race  as  Lea 
mad  to  flee  the  tyrannous  lash  of  the  winds : 

"And  the  harbor  bar  is  moaning." 


70 


i 


i. 


>•• 


DECEMBER 


CHARLES  S.  PARMENTER 


.8  83JJJAHD 


December 

DECEMBER  is  month  of  bitterness  and  December 
mirth ;  for  is  it  not  the  inaugural  month  of  Never 
Winter  and  the  sole  month  of  Christmas? 
Before  Christ  came  it  was  only  month  of 
icy  Winter  fierce  in  onset  of  frost  and  snow 
and  raging  icy  wind,  but  since  his  coming 
December,  however  angry  its  beginning, 
its  ending  has  always  been  in  a  burst  of 
laughter,  wild,  hilarious,  all  but  universal. 
You  would  not  think  of  December  as  the 
month  of  peace  and  good  will.  Its  men- 
ace is  as  the  onset  of  drunken  soldiers. 
Ruthless  rapine  is  its  destination.  Its 
sword  is  never  sheathed  but  hacks  and 
hacks  in  eternal  fury.  But  into  this  fury 
month  God  has  injected  the  gladness  of 
May  and  June  combined.  December  is 
72 


When  De- 
cember Be- 


month  of  singing  beyond  rose-embowered 
June.  There  is  no  mirth  like  Christmas 
mirth.  Never  has  there  been  since  this 
old  world  was  young  such  inextinguishable 
laughter  as  in  the  Merrie  Christmas  time. 
So  when  we  think  of  December  we  think 
less  of  its  being  the  first  Winter  month 
than  of  its  being  the  one  Christmas  month, 
December  is  Winter  invaded  by  June. 

At  November's  close  all  trees  are 
stripped  naked  and  stand  out  ready  for 
the  tempests  of  Winter  wind ;  and  in  De- 
cember this  wrestling  begins.  The  winds 

.  .  ,..,.        r  comes  Artist 

not :  the  trees  not.     I  ne  frost  makes  trop-   He  has 
ical  pictures  on  the  window  panes  so  that   Memory  of 
kitchen  windows  are  transposed  into  tapes-   ! 
tries  and  pictures  painted  by  nobler  mas- 
ters  than   Turner  and   Innes.     Is   this  a 
memory  of  Summer  that  makes  the  frost 
paint   Summer    pictures  on  its  windows? 
Who    knows?     But    Winter    does.     His 
artistry    is    of   the     equatorial    Summer, 
though  his  pencils  are  of  the  polar  Winter. 
When  December  begins  wild  winds  and 
spitting  snow,  shivering  is  in  fashion  even 
with  sparrows  and  squirrels;    and  frosts 

73 


nip  you  in  fun  or  earnest,  you  can't  fig- 
ure which,  and  when  Spring  comes  to  you 
more  as  a  myth  than  as  a  memory,  when 
it  seems  as  if  the  warm  south  wind  never 
drowsed  past  you,  and  as  if  you  never 
had  heard  the  drone  of  bees  and  the  click 
of  the  grasshoppers'  wings  or  smelt  the 
heavy  odor  of  the  milkweed  and  had 
never  seen  the  swallow  glass  fair  form  in 
the  quiet  of  the  evening  river.  All  these 
things  are  past  and  remembered  as  if  they 
had  ueen  seen  in  dreams,  in  happy  dreams. 
December  winds  leap  like  tigers  and 
clang  like  soldiers  and  curse  like  corsairs 
and  charge  like  the  Light  Brigade;  and 
skies  are  sullen  having  forgotten  laughter 
and  the  naked  trees  stand  in  the  murk  of 
midday  and  plot  against  the  storm.  Then 
snows  begin  to  sprinkle  from  ashen 
clouds  and  eddy  in  pools  as  the  leaves 
have  been  doing  the  past  month,  or  run  in 
spirals  through  the  sky,  Wind  and  Winter 
acting  out  their  tragedy ;  and  all  the  night 
snow  falls  and  curls  until  daylight  wakens 
and  the  world  is  a  new  earth  sculptured  of 
Parian  marble,  by  some  unnamed  artist, 

74 


December 
Winds  Leap 
Like  Tigers 
Ruthless, 
Ruthless 


faultless,    lovely,    lonely,    barren,    frigid, 
pitiless,  mirthless.     December  is  a  barren 
heart.    No  songs  are  native  to  his  lips ;  he 
is  sullen  as  a  dying  tyrant.    He  is  a  Herod 
in  whose  heart  are  murders  even  of  smil- 
ing babes.     December  has  a  sullen  leer  Tyrant  De- 
rather  than  laughter — and  in  his  heart  is  cember 
hate  of  Summer  and  its  mirth  of  bird  and  c^ 

flower.  Tune ! 

When,  O  wonder! — when  December  is 
at  its  frozen  noon  and  riot  is  king,  all  on  a 
sudden  mirth  invades  this  spacious  Winter 
and  voice  of  man  and  woman,  youth  and 
maid,  schoolboy  and  little  toddling  child, 
leaps  to  a  song,  and  the  icy  church  bells 
sing  a  carol  and  Christmas  chimneys  have 
radiant  light  and  everybody  hangs  his 
stocking  up  and  waits  to  see  what  Santa 
Claus  will  bring  and  people  forget  their 
weeping  or  are  ashamed  to  invade  Christ- 
mas with  their  tears — any  how  December 
has  been  silenced  of  his  boisterous  anger 
by  the  more  boisterous  good  nature  of  the 
whole  sweet  world  of  happy  hearts.  And 
unregenerate  December  himself  learns  a 
Christmas  tune  and  sings  with  tempestu- 

75 


ous  mirth  a  melody,  the  burden  of  which    December 
I  catch  to  be:  "Merry  Christmas,   Peace   j 
on  Earth,  good  will  to  men.     Christ  is    Tune 
come  and  has  changed   my  Winter  into 
laughing  Spring.      I   am  less  December 
now   than    June.      My   flowers    are   chil- 
dren's smiling  faces  and  my  birds'  sing 
ing   is   the   Christmas  laughter   of   such 
hearts  as  have  heard  that  in  Bethlehem  a 
Child  is  born  and  the  angels  sing  and  I, 
December  of  the  frozen  heart,  have  caught 
the  angels'  tune,  'Praise!  Praise!" 

December,  myself  will  learn  your  tune. 


The  End  of  God's 

Calendar 


